


Humanities

by Shellepink



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls I
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Introspection, No Plot/Plotless, Reflective Work, This is more a collection of little moments for one or maybe two characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:41:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29967240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shellepink/pseuds/Shellepink
Summary: Lordran is many things: Dangerous, storied, empty, mystical, powerful, lost, unknown.  In this land, one knows not what one will find, though suffering is abundant, and hope is in short supply.But no matter the suffering, in the midst of the horrors, there will always be this: small moments, fleeting and rare, of warmth and humanity, persistent no matter how seemingly insignificant.(A set of oneshots focusing on various original and canon characters in Dark Souls 1.)
Kudos: 2





	1. Annetta - Chosen Undead

**Author's Note:**

> For context, this fic focuses on various original characters of mine in DS1, and touches on themes and reflections I've had as I've played throughout the game. There's no real plot, and every chapter is more of a character/theme study, which will hopefully still be interesting.

**Annetta: Chosen Undead**

She couldn’t say how long she’d been there. She didn’t know which days were which anymore. She only knew that on some days, the sky was warm, and showed her the sun. And on others, it opened wide and released its tears.

But the rain was cleansing, if not invigorating, and she still found herself smiling at times to feel the pinpricks on her gnarled and wrinkled skin. 

They had taken her catalyst from her when they’d locked her away here. She remembered being good with magic. She remembered vaguely rooms full of other people, many of them young, like she had once been. She remembered the hardened edge of competition lacing the air and poisoning potential friendships. She remembered rumor and experimentation and, even more distantly, pride.

But she was marked, and that mark was a portent for horrible things, history had proven it. That great empire… What was it called? It had been destroyed by hollows overrunning its population, destroying its people, till nothing was left but them.

And that other sprawling city. It, too, had fallen to the mark, to the curse.

And so she was here, rounded up and sent with her jailers to be left to rot until the end of time.

She shook her head and pressed back to the wall, grounding herself as the thoughts grew fuzzy.

She began to hum.

It had been so long… She didn’t often hum anymore. She couldn’t remember the words to go with the tunes, and somehow that saddened her. 

But today… today something moved her spirit, compelled her to draw the tunes forth from deep within her soul and give voice to them.

Her head hurt, and her body was weak, and she could barely feel much of anything anymore. She had listened as hundreds of undead around her had screamed and cried out to be released, to be saved. She had heard them slowly give in to the loneliness, to the insanity, and she had heard them all when they finally went hollow. She could still hear their wails and groans and cries of agony.

But sometimes she imagined that, if nothing else, she could give them something pleasant to listen to, something soothing. 

Sometimes she imagined that she might lull them to sleep and quiet their pain. At least for a while.

So she hummed, and felt her soul rejuvenated.

And right then, a body fell to the ground from above.

\------------------------- 

She held his hand as he died. The one who had given her her freedom. She hummed thoughtlessly as she waited for his eyes to dull, for the shine of life – for lack of a better term – to leave them.

“I heard you…” he whispered before the end, and she forced herself not to stop, though she made her voice go soft. “That was how I knew… you could not be hollow…You could… if I failed…”

_Did you believe from the beginning you would fail?_

She couldn’t cry anymore, her body didn’t have the strength, but she hoped it might rain for him.

“I don’t know…” he went on, “how you lasted… so long, but—but go.” A weak push from the hand held in hers. “Go. I should hate to harm you in death.”

_No, no, you can’t give in to it, I’ve seen enough people give up, don’t you number among them._

He would not be calmed further, and continued to insist she leave. Eventually, she pulled reluctantly away, but hesitated before turning to leave. He smiled weakly at her.

Her skin was too tight across her face to smile back.

“Take my sword and shield,” he told her, quivering. “Just… just in case. I will… certainly not be able to… if you take them…”

She wanted to tell him that she hadn’t the strength to lift such weapons anymore. She had barely been able to drag herself this far.

But she wanted more to keep from distressing him further, so she simply nodded.

She reached for the sword, and his eyes closed. Her hand fell to the ground, heavy and weak, and she bowed her head for him.

His soul passed to her, and she gasped as it joined with hers, felt a strength return to her that she had not felt in so, _so long…_

The sensation, it was like… She imagined a small thing, a tiny flickering thing in the palm of her hand, held close to her chest, shielded, kept safe.

_Be at ease, be at peace. I will protect your soul. Go to the gods and sleep, you have done so well… I will continue on for you. Your task will be mine, it’s alright. It’s alright…_

She could stand. She could lift his sword. And later, when she found her catalyst…

The magic was just as beautiful as she remembered.


	2. Wilkin - Abandoned Cleric

**Wilkin: Abandoned Cleric**

The first thing – the _very first thing_ – Wilkin remembered thinking after he learned what miracles were was, _That’s it? They’re just stories?_

Oh, he’d been young then, still very much a child. But the thought had stuck, even as he’d grown. 

Stories. That’s all they were. These miracles, powerful and everlasting, even after all these years, these miracles that could heal wounds, that could strike down enemies with righteous lightning, that could lead the lost and weary back home…

They were words. 

And of course, that must have been because the power and majesty of the gods was so great that it infused these very words from which these miracles were woven.

But… that one miracle, the one Wilkin loved the most, the one that directed him homeward…

It was about a nameless god. A being with no power, no glory to his name, no great saga in his history. 

Just a nameless god, lost in the wilderness, seeking the path home.

Of course, it took a great deal of faith to perform that miracle. Faith in the gods, of course, in Gwyn and his divine children, in the other heroes who emerged to start the Age of Fire. 

But faith, also, in one’s own feet. Faith, also, that deliverance will come, that home is there still, even beyond one’s view. For the nameless god had been lost for so long before the start of his tale, and still he walked on. Still he tried each new path, hoping for something familiar, believing that the answer was there, that guidance was there, but that he simply… hadn’t discovered it yet.

It was a humble sort of faith, and therefore a difficult kind of faith to maintain. Wilkin himself struggled with it often.

It wasn’t meant to be rewarded, it wasn’t meant to be seen or approved of by others. It… buoyed a person. It took their hand and offered silently a way forward, whether easy or difficult. It promised nothing, and yet it did not fear.

And thus, Wilkin found himself; standing alone in the wilderness, no home in sight, the brand hot at his neck, a task put to him by those who wished only his absence, either in death or in his departure.

And there was the path he could take. Overshadowed and unfamiliar. Unknown and without promise. 

But there… there was that faith, a tiny and quiet thing, humming in his breast, threatened and uncertain. Yet still there. 

If these words could hold power, then certainly this faith could hold strength.

So Wilkin stepped forward onto the path. Stepped forward, and took its hand.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a bit odd. Dark Souls isn't as character-driven as a lot of the other games I write fic for, but the lore is rich and the world is vast and deep, and with Dark Souls 1 in particular, there's so much feeling and atmosphere present in the game, and that's really what I'm aiming to tap into for this fic.
> 
> If I get more ideas (especially for canon NPCs in DS1), I might add extra chapters, but for now, these 4 are all I have planned/written.


End file.
